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I began with what I simultaneously kept hidden from myself! Every day I filled the urns with different contents that, during the night – dismayed that they did not take the bait, that my permanent anxiety did not subside and relax – I emptied, poured out and spilled on the floor of my room! Every day and every night I repeated it – through the medium of the urn I emptied first the environs of my house and then my household in one heap! The Malvazinky shadow came to claim its due, it had trapped its prey.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tAt the beginning, with everyday materials and natural substances brought from outdoors, it was sometimes even charming, these vessels full of acorns and chestnuts, leaves and pine needles, snail shells, moss and droppings, sand, earth and gravel. I soon however switched to food, which I intuitively perceived as a more precious filling, as a sacrifice. The sacrifice was something I could need myself, something that could relieve me. I felt ever more plainly that the emptiness required redemption. I cannot, after all, be outside this age-old and very powerful principle, I kept thinking, the question will only be the amount of this sacrifice. In hope I crammed into the urns cereals, legumes, pasta, spices, dried fruits, rice, grated fruit and grated vegetables – everything a vegetarian kitchen could supply. From honey it was just a short step to liquids. With wine and water, the pagan ritual gave way to the Christian liturgy, only to return to my room again with milk, beer and various spirits. With each new filling I pretended to myself that maybe this might be the right one, but deep down I knew that the calibre will have to be bigger than before – much bigger, that this ritual idyll must be replaced by a black mass, voodoo, or necromantic despair! I set out to buy what I never purchase, even as an exception – provisions of animal origin. I stuffed cheeses into the urns, scraped out yogurt, broke eggs, and sensed while I was doing it that I was not going to avoid the worst. My ever more obsessive obsession had to be completed, had to be crowned, by – meat! First, fish – from that time I know how many sardine tins fit into one urn (44) – then poultry and in the end meat from carnivores, above all their innards. The counterpoint of real raw tissue (the outcome of slaughter in a shambles) set against an image of the structure of ashes (the outcome of cremation) could not be more dramatic! The replacement of the body as a necessary perversion in an attempt to reverse the course of events! Two and a half kilos into each! And all that tipped onto one heap every night! Its rustic base and its cereal layer, both properly perfused and swollen, overlaid by smooth milk products from which protrude little heaps of different masses often still holding the form of the urns, had, up to Christmas Eve, involved dumping more than a hundred vessels on the floor when, already truly in despair, I brought to my apartment five kilograms of mincemeat, which maybe even Satan would not purchase on that day, and pounded them into the urns up to the brim because I was gradually convinced that my previous failure was caused by gaps between the pieces of meat. Mincemeat eliminated this inadequacy perfectly. Have you ever seen an urn full of mincemeat? Have you ever seen two such vessels side by side? The following night, known as Holy Night, was the worst of all. In the intervals between feeling that I was suffocating, I saw that the mouths of the urns were not filled but had choked to death, that they would no longer take anything. That they would take only the one thing that I had been pretending to myself I did not know what it was, although I did know. The only thing these dead mouths would take, the only filling for these trifling twenty-centimetre gulfs, these bottomless cans, was their original contents – human ashes! But in my head resounded the recurrent connection – ashes made from man! I was pressed into a still more personal position, into an ever closer confrontation, into physical participation. I therefore spent Christmas Day in my cemetery – where I had, in spite of my mental state and my obsession, carried on working through my horrors – so I could carry out the necessary steps. I felt that as the going got tough I had to experiment, to operate with only one relevant vessel, to get rid of only one utterly specific emptiness – only that utterly specific space of embarrassing emptiness profiled by the shape of Klíma’s urn! I therefore burnt the transport vessel at the collection point for wreaths and, in the warehouse of unclaimed urns, chose one on whose label only the christian name Miloslav could be read, which guaranteed the anonymity of the ashes but at the same time their masculinity, moreover the end of the name even accorded with the philosopher’s Ladislav, I didn’t even want a complete concurrence. I poured Miloslav’s ashes into Ladislav’s urn. You can imagine how the night I spent with this hybrid, the night of St. Stephen, surpassed even Holy Night in its mental devastation and gruesomeness. In the middle of the night, paralysed in the most terrible state of anxiety, in an effort to release its grip, I had to pour Miloslav’s ashes out of Ladislav’s urn into a hastily found plastic bag and, shaken with disgust which had the characteristics of a sarcophagus, breathless with an anxiety which lacked a beginning, bottom, anchoring and end, throw it on my pile! Ladislav had rejected, had thrown out even Miloslav, I had reached my goal. Thanks to my description, honoured sir, you can see my suffering and already you know that I am close. To you it is obvious, like all who look on from outside you can see the model of deliverance! But I couldn’t see it! I was a complete expert on the urn space of my mind and on urn space as such, but I had to pretend to myself that I was not; if I had not done so I would soon have known, I would have known too soon, that I had to fill this space myself! I alone, with myself! First however I had to see the plastic bag with the ashes of an unknown unfortunate lying on the mass of my domestic heap and to see it as the outcome of my life! In order to reach catharsis, realisation, and salvation, I had to see not only that plastic bag holding Miloslav but also the name on that plastic bag which did not correspond to the contents at all because the name on the bag was Julius Meinl!... That was all I needed to see it for myself. This detail, this disproportion, this little bit of Vienna, was the final drop necessary for me to see before my illumination came, before I saw myself. There are people who have to, people who need to, see the Virgin Mary or an angel or God... I had to see the little head of a black boy wearing a red fez. I understood my suffering through the suffering of my eyes! And so I finally saw myself and as with everyone who sees themselves, I was engulfed by – perceive the word – peace! Disgust peeled away and anxiety dissolved (so you see, they are different states). I could clear the heap out of my room and, because it was now the heap of my life, clear it out of my life. I looked on myself and I saw that I am such as I made myself. I saw myself as ashes in Ladislav’s urn and I saw that it was the only correct perspective, the only correct way and the only correct place for me to be at all, just as each of us has his one and only place where he can be after he has reinstated his lost balance, after he has seen everything and thus finally seen himself too, and above all the extent of his debt, which every being is in essence, and can so offer his full worth in the scales. Just as every being is a debt, so is every being guilt, because in this world every debt clings to everyone and everything like guilt! And through my decision, my illumination, my saving idea, my divine inspiration, I destroy my guilt absolutely! All my guilt that is primarily emptiness and embarrassment! The space of the urn is the space of one’s transformation and somehow its contents must correspond to the sacred proportions of the human body contained... Old undertakers called urns powder compacts, do you remember?\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tMy debt is not metaphysical, should there be such a thing, it is in the end thoroughly physical. The only thing is, Ladislav Klíma’s urn will not then be able to use my hands to cast out my own ashes! Simply – once I am burnt to ashes I will no longer pour anything out, let alone myself!\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tI did not consider death at all! It should not be my death that balances my guilt over Klíma’s ashes! That is not at all important, I simply do not count with its value and still less with the worth of some sacrifice connected with it! Absolutely not! – Ashes balance ashes, that is my concise and primitive reflection. Ashes for ashes. Death is merely a single path to this realisation, an essential but secondary step. Do you understand? I would have reached peace even without death, however, that isn’t possible. I have nothing against surviving my reduction to ashes, but it doesn’t work that way.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t(...)\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n","brand":"publishig-house-divus","offers":[{"title":"English","offer_id":46505795879163,"sku":"","price":9.0,"currency_code":"EUR","in_stock":true},{"title":"Czech","offer_id":46505795911931,"sku":"","price":9.0,"currency_code":"EUR","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0689\/9266\/3803\/files\/3a7ee20009e60d774c24a9582ceef79f.jpg?v=1726097006"},{"product_id":"j-august-buehler-martin-zet-the-animal-and-the-city-and-flowers","title":"J. August Buehler, Martin Zet: the animal and the city and flowers","description":"\u003cp\u003e\r\n\tGetting down and into it, I hope to write for some time with no other objective than to entertain, let you know and otherwise dispel the feeling of just sitting here. The coffee’s gone cold, and the plaster snake remains unpainted. The warmth of those around me, Marketa, Crafty, Dave, Penny, Marisa, One, Blue Shoes and Loser Mate, blows in through the open door, curls the papers on the floor, trembles the windows.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tHow should one cut and paste these lives, and should they be given at all? We went dancing and drank wine. We went for a ride. The walls bend around the room. The tequila is hot and burns holes at the bottom of the well. We stagger on in the morning. Get on buses and traverse the city.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tI have my arms around a loose assortment of people, souls, burnt out and scrappy warriors, those who ache and stumble, blind, longing, but full in the morning and drained at night. We half play and are getting serious about it all, about putting our stuff up on the walls, getting it out and opening up. Getting old. The pictures all come back now overexposed with the light exploding from around the dulled edges, into the eyes and washed in living reds, blacks and whites. We celebrate to live and die as we pull back the sheets, grip around the middle, cough once and then again, leaning forward to make coffee, get out of bed, get back into it again, to keep busy, because after all it’s in those moments when nobody calls and you’re on your floor and the waiting’s begun and the dust settles, an old thing, the waiting, a country thing that actually reverses in the city; inside out it becomes a panic thing, a horny thing, a shuffle through magazines looking for that article, or a tapping of the finger, cleaning the windows, anything’s better than watching the dust turn around your breath and settle on your legs and hands, resting evenly on the floor.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tBest to drink coffee and smoke a cigarette, and dance, in tune in humming in motion in flight. I love to ride a motorcycle around curves like running my hand over a smooth hot piece of metal and then the moment you stop at a crossroads and the engine cools and ticks and the silence falls like a body, and lightens again as the light and sounds of crows fill the space. The colors are green and red and blue and so solid you have to squint to mix them, blend them, so they streak a little. The air is sharp here, too, like down by the stream that runs near your home as we walk with your two pointers lopping ahead. It takes two to crash through the door and up to the chest and put your face in the water. Two to climb out and dry on the bank. A solid stand of oaks. An open, breathing space.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tSpring in the city brings beautiful lies in the shape of hopeful permanence, in the shape of devastating city symmetry. A longing to be inside people and their things, where the heart leaps and burns.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tAnd it’s time that gets it all in the end, time as it erodes and changes us and undoes us. We let go and float and hope for the best, for a time when somebody will claim us for their own, that will settle matters and eternalize us, make us whole human and undespairing. And time, unflinching wench, gives up nothing, not even a shrug or a wink. It doesn’t exist it’s not real. It’s beautiful and terrible and lives and doesn’t care.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tTwo dangerous animals butt heads and rut over fallen timber, where love is hate too and inside out it dangles tauntingly in front of you and you never see it and one day it is gone and you never see what became of it. And that’s okay too.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tI like walking through the city, the brushing of the bodies, the strange tactile sensation of sticky summer movement through a crowd and all the breath goes up and over the town and chimneys. Summer brings street corners at night and exchanges, slow parting, the screech of windows opening, cries from the alley slumber and Hamlet at the Globe, the sound of falling apples and wine. Summer brings stasis and stopping and sun that lingers and offers itself on sheets of metal and cloth that stains red and goes hauntingly pink, rouge and then night. Summer brings murder and release. Summer heaves and breathes and sweats all weekend under lime and oak, and summer never goes away. It starts with a crack under an object, a tea cup, as if the cup were emitting what it knew all along, and pours out what was pent up for months, through the doors and windows and laughing its way into your clothes and the back of your neck.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tSo I follow now in furs the animals as they retreat to the herd and head for the forest, their heads held high. When I was young I hunted animals, deer mostly, and shot a few, and I can smell all those smells now. The flashes and waits, panic and angelic feel of fur and blood. I respected what I killed because I was taught to, but I was also taught not to, to be up in a tree and see the world move as light falls from the sky, and the trees fall to the earth, softly, in time. The early dark fall mornings in the back of a car, green alien light from the dash and turning off the highway down a dirt road as we crunch though snow to a place where animals may be. Where they are, we are assured, or we wouldn’t be there. Again the silence of noise, the slamming of car doors and the heat of coffee in a red plastic thermos cap, burning my hands, blow nose, sling rifle, feel fear, walk into the brush, boots sliding cautiously not to snap branches. The city too hunts and holds, prepares, launches and falls, as much of autumn is sliding fear and coolness and even walking.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tWinter in the city brings truth in the shape of boxes opened, kicked into the street or stored until one day, surprisingly unlidded, unstopped, unmasked. Winter brings love, too, in the shadows of ash fires, in the dullness of moments, the window streaks and hearts.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tWe could dance in winter and feel each other through sweaters and jeans. We could follow the trails of Cesky Raj or not and get lost, because of the helplessness of it, the letting go of the sun this time, and the human, animal, warming that happens under blankets, at night, as we give up and become ourselves for each other, in winter, in embrace, and here winter love sets in, and then the animal, and the city.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tevery day now I go further—when\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tthe cast iron splinters against the wall\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tit would be so easy to knife into\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\ta sea as cold and blue as this one\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\twith its white lights and boiling icebergs\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tthat shoot into the sky like sculpted dolphins\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tin all this silence the sea moves\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tunder foot in the darker chambers\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\twhere fish heads are nailed to stone walls\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tand rusty anchors sink through forest floors\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tSounds. Like sound dreams and sound people. Light from inside out, in sound relief. It may take years to find the right one. To image what is in the sound. To ease the splitting of morning and night. To heal the separation. In fact, to salve what burned and itched for so long, at the point of separation. With noble face often times more animal—more forest animal—than city human. With camera in hand Marketa stands at a great distance and draws shades of life from the tactile visible world and then infuses them with memory and story. Parked cars implode in the dead of night. Come morning, the punched glass runs over scorched metal like slow water, touches the street and its light penetrates her open eyes.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tAnd here, as this cityworld’s landscape gapes openly into dawn, she scales down the side of a building with her carefully concealed camera hitched tight in a special leather holster made just for these excursions. Poised against the stone of the building, her gloved fingers tented, the black tips of her rubber shoes resting on a heavy stone window ledge, she listens for, and hears, the creaking beds and doors of human lives as they rise and fall headlong into the day, as they engage the madness of traffic and work, as they open themselves up to the dangers of conscious life and motion.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tThe stories unfold from there, she knows, and so she waits with her eyes half open, flickering vermilion slits. Just as the air begins to assume a certain quality of light that almost glistens, she lets herself fall hissing into the cool darkness of the shadows below and then swings out on blue ropes until they lock her into place, hovering over the street. Hanging in emptiness, she snaps away at the mystery of strangers emerging into the morning. She turns quickly on a swivel as a window bangs open behind her.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tA repetition or a ritual, leading to frozen gray sound dreams of the profound within the mundane. In open space, she hears first and then sees. Nobody ever looks up as the gossamer threads that hold her over the street on an airy windlass send her singing back up to the rooftops, the evidence of something having happened, captured and curled, slowly cooling within the bowels of her camera.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tTall Woman\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\ttall woman slinks in black leather and red canvas shoes\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\topens doors at night\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tas lights blink off and street lamps tremble like cold spoons\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tbetween your teeth\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tthe snuffing of the lamps\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tknows no bounds to the sad and aching heart\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tstill it goes on under the skin of tall woman\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tin the voice she no longer uses\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tshe is open, she is so open that everything hurts\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tthey say she’s mad\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tand bruises at the slightest touch\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tshe’s so in love\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tand they say the hills have drawn up like smooth muscles around the city\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tshe peers over the broken-teeth landscape\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tand pads silently past the haunted train station\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\twhere dead artists film the night in colored sheets\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tand strip your eyes\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tbut she resists\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tand plunges deeper into the heart of the city\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tbehind the busted-out box of paints and magazines\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\twhere she grates open the iron door waiting there\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tbanjos sally forth, volley thrice the alley shadows\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tbob jauntily down the street and away\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tshe knows the work that still must be done\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tand there’s more to come\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tonly she’s tired, and that’s fine\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\ttall woman leans against the stone wall\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tsinks to the cool pavement and closes her eyes\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tleather colds to her legs like thorns and ice with sound\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\twhen she crosses her heel over the top of her foot\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tmoon shapes\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tit’s night in the city and quiet where animals walk alone\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\ttall woman with back to wall in no cage in no manner\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tthe stalking panther turns in bladed grass to the heart of vision\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tRain Stones\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tIt pains to stand in the rain\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tand smoke this cigarette\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tmy knuckles bleed\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tand it hurts to see the ends come together\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tof all I have done today\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\twith the stones in the garden\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tMarisa raps on the glass\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tand opens the window\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tI can’t stand it—\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tmy shirt is soaked to my back\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tI climb through the window\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tand pinch her baggy breasts and pull her\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tknotty gray hair\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tthe police break in the door\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\twe wail and shout\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tand throw eggs and steal their guns\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tMarisa is in love, she says, with me\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tand we smoke her shoes for food\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tand through the clouds and walls and years\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\twe pick the child of room and space\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tand wonder how it could ever be better\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\thow it was never before and how\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\twhen Marisa stands on her gangling toes\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tin green sandals, I place the rain stones\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tin the garden in such a way that it turns\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tbut gold, and we can’t help the dance\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\twe could never help but dance\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tCrafty!\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tCAn’t get the boot off without the skin come too! Ah.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tI gotta scoop the water, too, over my hot feet\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tand they spit like bacon and steam the car windows\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tinthe strEEt. Jagged. I rip the nail in two, hot potatoes!\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tand stomp the ice puddle with both my feet. AH! AH!\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tThey’re staring at me, I see them, thou they think I don’t or care.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tBits come off me! Ripe baking meat and fish heads burst.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tLight shoots from my eyes in great buttery gouts!\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tAh! That’s crafty one. Newspaper wraps stops up the bleeding meatloafs AH!\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tThey can’t see what I read deep designs in the cRAcks in the pools on the street!\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tThey don’t know how I fold sheet plastic neat or crumple beer cans down to dimes\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\twith my bare hands till they sing for holy mercy, and I AM! Or pinch Marcy’s bottom\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tand makes her laugh till she cry! WITH LOVE!\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tSLAP! SLAP! CRAFTY!\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tHome Is Everyday Now\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tFor the opening of new space\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tfor the life of fridge and plant and all the accumulated stuff of two lives.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tIt’s hard to know the balance of where to begin\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tand come to terms with how it will end.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tDeath of the moment comes like a snowball in the eye\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\ta faint shriek on the edge of wake\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\ta slide down a slippery slope.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tNo more can we pretend we are alone and safe.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tOur youth is done and closed.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tThe cardboard boxes of photos and darts have long parted in the rain.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tNow before us stands kitchen waiting to be cleaned.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tThere is a shine there in the crack between the doors.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tSomeone must open the window and let it in.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tUnknown voices of neighbors who both shout like guns\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tand cast stick shadows over the streets.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tThe redwood beads in the window sway and click\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tand give us pause,\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tthe nights deepen such and we imagine\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tsomewhere the floors creak, and those too become known.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tEach one framed in a memory and placed on the wall\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tand only later, much later, in the yellowy of age\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tdo we recall how one step there was silence and two lips over,\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\ta memory on the wall, but it’s the getting used to, the familiarity,\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tthat damns and sets us free. The very knowledge of one\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tgoes deep, far deeper than the knowledge of many\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tthe vines on the walls, the age of the walls, the new paint on the walls.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tThere are echoes here of what can come from a piercing look\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tyour eyes which anchor me to earth, which tie me to now\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\twhich know far more than they admit,\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tfrom the soundest of ice breakers\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tfloating on water, warm enough to know how long\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tthe sadness of knowing exactly how long\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tand the blueness of knowing exactly how long\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\twith the heart and the beat, and in there, somewhere,\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tis the pulse of the forest gone home, and the home gone forest.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tWe imagine writing into the night by candlelight\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tI look up, watch you moving your hand across the page, and now I know\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tthat was you I saw along the green moonlight path\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tbetween the solid stand of oak, the grass so lush it blazed.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tShow me your lasso, ring me around the knees, drag me down, I beg you,\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tto the earth, so I eat the earth between your knees, and cry there between your knees.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tI can no longer help myself, nor do I want to.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tThe daytime has invaded our space and\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tfilled it with light\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\thas covered our paper notebooks\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\twith salt and lime,\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tthere’s nothing left and the bed heaves and buckles in the corner,\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tthe chimney smokes openly the herbage of what we’d stored\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tand the dogs we never had howl\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tbang their tails inside cupboards,\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tthe blue art of one-stroke paintings\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tslashes across the white walls.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tAnd we paint them again, the journey and the painting, the journey out\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tthe front door to the nearest restaurant with good light.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tWe are clearly mad, the way we talk nonstop and fill our white cups time and again\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tthey never seem to empty, they never go away, they too are familiar\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tthe cups and the filling and the drinking, the neverendingdrinking\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tand the neverendingopening of the menu of what we bought\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tand what we sold, what we lost and what we gained\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\twe no longer stop and reflect, buy candles and hesitate.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tWe milk the cow, shoulder the scrap heap and move the hill.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tThe animals bay from the cellar, and shit on the floor.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tThat too gets done and learns to shine—\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tand becomes dear.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tThe worry and the fear and the slap and the damn of the\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\ttree horns in our chests and guts,\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tget expressed in the beaded\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tnecklaces curled in jade nuggets and white soapsuds\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tin a small bone cup on the lacquered\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\ttrunk in the corner where rest a chair and bowl of mandarins.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tThere was the day balloons filled the space of all colors and shapes\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tof salmon and robots and clowns and hunting knives and gilded fangs.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tThey filled the space with their rubber noise and false cheer.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tHow like the balloons, how like the balloons to do such a thing.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tAnd through it all I waved my arms and from the other side,\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tfrom the very far side of the room, you stood and waved back,\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tthe noise and roar of the balloons were testament to the motion\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tof our bodies\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tthis sea\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tthese lost snatches of air in the sudden explosion come home.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tYou waved and slashed out with your arms and I could see you\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tfall finally and rest,\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tall came tumbling down, the balloons, red and green and orange\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tbulrush and mandolin and Chevy ’55,\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tpounded down around you.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tYou lay and laughed there on the floor, all awash, all agolden\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tand I waved to you\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\thappy to see, happy to be, at least this near, at least this far\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tknowing that there will always be more.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tThe City\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tthe city in new architecture believes\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tin ends to its days\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tas the door opens in smooth shadows\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\ttall woman steps out into the long light of August\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tand squeezes her thick hands between the white stones\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tshe fears nothing but the sound of the dust\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tpowdering her red canvas shoes\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tas billboards gone one with the gallery\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tas Marketa rises from bed and scans the skies\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tfor ancient animal traces\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tall in a moment each moment we are revealed\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tin the landscape of the city no longer feared\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tas madman One lost and pounds the pavement\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tin drag torn from his body of disjointed ruins of limbs\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tas he pounds a hole in the pavement and slips through\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\the knows the ends of the days and the city\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tas it goes and so it goes the city it goes\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tas young girl Marisa hangs from a live wire and sways\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\ton the new moontime wind\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tshe sways and thinks and fears only her soiled dress\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\twhat mother will say and the city it groans\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tand opens its borders and is clean and shine\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tconcrete ducts tremble and shear\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tthe sun pounds glass towers and burns on a slow turn about\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\thovers in open space\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\ton one hundred million threads of thin steel and copper\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\thow it can be so real and clean\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tas canals sunder and surge into pure air and sound\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tthere is no worry and fear and fear and we all step back\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tDave walks his black dog in the shade\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tas his knees crack like walnuts and he bends\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tand slips on a snail that makes him laugh\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tand the city sees and winks\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tin the new heat\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tMarketa slips on her sunglasses and pulls back her hair now white\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tfor now she sees through the shadows of lives\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\ther wisdom is old old\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tas ravaged color streams on the banks of storm and field\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\ther insight burns her will and will consume her in time\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\ther hair is white over her ears and her ears\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tas she bides on the corner near the newsstand\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tthe news comes and goes and she lowers her eyes behind her glasses\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tas the city puckers and breathes under her feet\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tas men and women tumble through sliding doors at six\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\teye for the release of home\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tas the city turns one degree to the sun\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tas the shadows fall over my hands\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tand Grace grips by the throat\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tand incants her way to free and song\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tas the city belongs\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tthe city belongs and fears no more the end\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tof bad falling stars\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tthe end of perfect art longing\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tthe end of asking and taking\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tthe end of letting go and be\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tsomewhere high over the A-frames and gabled rows\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tMarisa is electrified\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\ta slender pin of light piercing the bellows of the sky\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tshe forms a blazing pinwheel in slow loops on locked arms\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\ther burning rags wrap her body and sear\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tas Dave turns once and slides to the pavement with his dog Penny\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tshe rests her head in his crotch\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\ther hind legs twitch and she gets old\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tDave gets older slower\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tthey get old and hold no grip\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\ttime slips away and the city it does hear\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tthe city is no older and no younger than it was\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tthe city has opened its doors and windows\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tand all inner lights and shadows have gathered in the center square\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tfor Marketa removes her glasses and presses the camera to her eye\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tshe holds poised for the shot to capture what will never be\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tto never be the city now knows and understands and draws up its shoulders\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tholds its head erect and breathes through its land and bleeds with its rivers\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tthe city it breathes and knows it bleeds and in the sudden flash:\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tthe city lives\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t*******Martin Zet, 1995\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n","brand":"publishig-house-divus","offers":[{"title":"English","offer_id":46505796206843,"sku":"","price":7.0,"currency_code":"EUR","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0689\/9266\/3803\/files\/184a8182344bac1367469ac8edc034f8.jpg?v=1726097028"},{"product_id":"s-d-ch-czech-trilogy","title":"S.d.Ch.: Czech Trilogy","description":"\u003cp\u003e\r\n\tczech\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t*The Vysehrad Session***Red Amadeus*****Lost in The Gottwald\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n","brand":"publishig-house-divus","offers":[{"title":"Default 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Reisenauer has illustrated \u003cem\u003eRespekt\u003c\/em\u003e since its inception, and his illustrations have become the reason why many people follow the magazine.\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\tThe work contains hidden passages of seemingly important histories, and points into dark corners, where lurks the spirit of the mundane.\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\tReisenauer’s work is produced using a very highly detailed technique, combining digital technologies with traditional draftsmanship. The works are printed using latex inks on vinyl. In the exhibition's newspaper style catalogue you will find a unique interview with the artist – \u003cem\u003eThe Anti-Crowd-Pleaser\u003c\/em\u003e.\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n","brand":"Divus \u0026 Nova Perla","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46505800433915,"sku":"","price":2250.0,"currency_code":"EUR","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0689\/9266\/3803\/files\/d18d82d629f5aae339dfc80eefa20952.jpg?v=1726097167"},{"product_id":"s-d-ch-studena-vlna","title":"S.d.Ch.: Studená vlna","description":"\u003cp\u003e\r\n\t(ukázka)\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\t\u003cstrong\u003eCESTA - ÚZKOST - SPÁNEK - ÚZKOST\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\t \u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\tČekali to meteorologové a podle nich to čekali všichni, a musím přiznat, že jsem to se všemi čekal i já, že po řadě nepřirozeně horkých květnových dní přijde stejně nepřirozené květnové ochlazení, je možné, že změna počasí způsobila i změ-\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tnu mého stavu, je možné, že to bylo naopak, je však i možné, že se změna mého stavu se změnou počasí pouze náhodně překryly, jako jsou koneckonců možné náhody, to snad není tak důležité jako to, že obě změny byly z mého pohledu změnami k horšímu, v případě počasí šlo o drastické ochlazení, v případě mého stavu o nástup depresivní fáze provázené pocity úzkosti, pocity méněcennosti a zmaru a pocity neodkladnosti všeho, doslova trpím pocity, a v takovém stavu nejsem schopen čelit nejen všemu, ale i jen čemukoliv, natož náhlým změnám, nejméně však změnám počasí k horšímu, které jsou nejhorší, ovšem ani ty k lepšímu nejsou v mém stavu nic vítaného, v takovém stavu nemohu čelit změnám počasí, které za těchto okolností považuji za bezpráví, ani takovým prostým způsobem jako je jednoduchá výměna lehkého oblečení za teplé a naopak, přesně takto se pak mohu ocitnout v zimních doplňcích mezi polonahými lidmi, nebo jako teď, téměř nahý v oranici rozmáčené studeným deštěm, ale spíš v rozmáčené ornici uprostřed sotva vzešlého kukuřičného pole, obtěžkán igelitovou taškou plnou potravin, s jejichž výběrem nejsem spokojený, nebyli to Číňané, ti jsou krutí a neuctiví, byli to Vietnamci, kteří jsou krutí a uctiví a kteří mi ve svém obchodě tuto tašku potravin prodali, dokonce potravin, které se dají koupit jen v jimi pronajatých obchodech a které i přes můj úzkostný výběr jsou i tak potravinami nevhodnými, nebezpečnými, jen v takovém nešťastném stavu se mohu ocitnout na cestě, která už od sedmdesátých let, nerad říkám minulého století, protože jsem v něm žil a označovali jsme tak století devatenácté, epochu naprosto vzdálenou a irelevantní, neexistuje, protože ji nikdo kromě mě nepotřebuje, je to neexistující zaoraná cesta k naší víkendové chalupě, která existuje, ale o níž raději říkám, že je to chalupa mé ženy, stejně jako náš automobil je automobil mé ženy, a ten o to více, že je nejen, stejně jako chalupa, pořízen z peněz rodiny mé ženy, ale především ho má žena, na rozdíl ode mě, ovládá, o níž vím, hovořím zase o chalupě, že je na ní v počasí, které právě nastává, a podle předpovědi bude trvat několik dní, pobyt velmi nepříjemný a v mém nynějším stavu nesnesitelný a vyloučený, ponurost a pochmurnost místa i celé okolní krajiny je naprosto objektivním faktem už na základě pouhého srovnání s jinými místy a krajinami za stejného počasí ve stejném období, občas se stává, že odtud na základě ponurosti a pochmurnosti uteču prostřednictvím skoku přes plaňkový plot a následným pětadvacetikilometrovým očistným pochodem do vzdáleného města s pravidelným meziměstským spojením, o kterém se ve vsi s chalupou mé ženy nedá hovořit ani vzdáleně, skočím a odstraním ze sebe následky svého chalupářského pobytu, jdu očistný pochod a promítám si očistný skok přes plaňkový plot, jehož stavbou jsem posedlý, už několik let jsem posedlý stavbou plotu, přes který skáču, stvořuji stovky metrů této ohavnosti, ponechávaje jednotlivým plaňkám nepřiměřenou, nevhodnou a ohavnost tohoto plotu podtrhující výšku, stavím plaňkové ploty nepřirozeně vysoké, ale ve skutečnosti stavím jediný, stále týž nepřerušovaný, nedílný plaňkový plot, který se mi ve výsledku, ale i v průběhu stavby, natolik podobá, že se mi další jeho stavba už dočista hnusí, toužím už nepostavit ani metr tohoto zařízení, nechci primitivismem, nenáročností a lajdáctvím tohoto typu oplocení, nechci jeho tvorbou zmnožovat obraz svého vlastního primitivismu, své vlastní nenáročnosti a lajdáctví, navíc výška, chorobná výška plotu, který stavím alespoň z poloviny a vědomě z nahnilého materiálu, odkazuje na jinou chorobnost, na úzkost ženoucí do nepřiměřené výšky nejen ploty, ale především myšlenky, ale také představy, žene je do výšky, která svou nepřiměřeností všechny myšlenky a představy deformuje v děsivá svědectví o šílené povaze světa, deformuje je v strmící stěny úzkostného strachu, za nimiž se skrývá podstatný cizinec, vyvrženec a směšný stavitel přibíjející stovky smrkových krajinek, stovky jednotlivých vertikál na celek shnilé horizontály, kterou pak přeskočí, aby utekl.\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\tDnes tu ale není jiná volba, než na chalupě mé ženy být a nic nepřeskakovat, neboť v mém stavu, který vyžaduje ústraní a usebrání, nemohu strávit víkend se svojí rodinou, která je pro množství zásluh o ni spíše rodinou mé ženy, zůstat přes víkend s rodinou je pravým opakem toho, co ve svém nynějším stavu nutně potřebuji k překonání svých obtíží, či si to alespoň myslím nebo nalhávám, tak odjíždím, ač vím, že je to po změně počasí a po změně mého stavu už třetí, paralelní změna, změna místa a prostředí a toto ztrojení změn může mít svoje fatální následky, ironií nebo snad jen nešťastnou shodou náhod zůstává má rodina, tedy má žena a mé dvě dcery, právě tento víkend ve městě, přestože tu zůstávají, a v tomto období zvlášť, o víkendu jen výjimečně, spíš vůbec ne, a pokud by právě tento víkend odjely, stejně jako naprostou většinu ostatních víkendů, pokud by odjely z města, většinou k rodičům mé ženy, vůbec bych na žádnou chalupu, a to ani v krajním případě, nejel, zůstal bych doma ve městě, ve zdech bytu, v ulicích a ve tmě artových kin, kde svůj nynější špatný stav velmi dobře zvládám, dokonce z něj dokážu těžit, a tak vlastně vůbec nenastává.\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\t...\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n","brand":"publishig-house-divus","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46505810395387,"sku":"","price":7.0,"currency_code":"EUR","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0689\/9266\/3803\/files\/8d93c4cef3aaaf51686ba6ba812240a2.jpg?v=1726097490"},{"product_id":"s-d-ch-varlen-7-8-9-or-diary-of-prosaic-distress","title":"S.d.Ch.: Varlén 7.8.9. or Diary of prosaic distress","description":"","brand":"publishig-house-divus","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46505811017979,"sku":"","price":9.0,"currency_code":"EUR","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0689\/9266\/3803\/files\/7a8cc49ddf74ea19b071aa87b47c5454.jpg?v=1726097508"},{"product_id":"martin-zet-the-suicide-of-the-image","title":"Martin Zet: THE SUICIDE OF THE IMAGE","description":"\u003cp\u003e\r\n\t„The average life of mammals is 800 million heartbeats. In human terms, that's 19 years. If we didn’t live so long, the human world would be a delightfully unambiguous place. Nineteen — that's exactly the age when bright black and white vision begins to soak up grey nuances,* as one slowly becomes pliable, caving in to compromise.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tTo mature into the age of reproduction, to beget children and die. Children raising children — this is exactly what \"mature\" educators are scared of the most. I take great pains to return to a state of consciousness in which the recognition of what is really important (fun, love, friendship, sex) and distinguishing right and wrong (which some adults assert doesn't exist) is the most natural possible thing. And dealing with something other than what you want is just wasting time.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tA general and also a personal problem is that I am living longer than what I was made to** (and if there were no doctors, it would be just those 19 years).“\u003cstrong\u003e  \u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\t \u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\t\"My wife Erika insists that I incorporate into the contract a stipulation stating that if I go from my new\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tpost straight to jail, I’m to be imprisoned in Vinaøice\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t(a village about 3 km from our home).\"\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\t \u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\t\"EVERYBODY\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tIS\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tPROFITING\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tFROM\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tIT\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tEXCEPT\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tTHE\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tVICTIMS!\"\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\t \u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\tExcerpts from the book.\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\t \u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv style=\"margin-bottom: 0cm;\"\u003e\r\n\t \u003c\/div\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv style=\"margin-bottom: 0cm;\"\u003e\r\n\t \u003c\/div\u003e\r\n\u003cdiv style=\"margin-bottom: 0cm;\"\u003e\r\n\t\u003cspan style=\"font-size:12px;\"\u003eMore about \u003cspan style=\"color:#ff0000;\"\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e\u003ca href=\"http:\/\/divus.cc\/london\/en\/search\/?q=martin+zet\"\u003eMartin Zet at divus.cc\u003c\/a\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/span\u003e\n\u003c\/div\u003e\r\n","brand":"publishig-house-divus","offers":[{"title":"English","offer_id":46505811149051,"sku":"","price":15.0,"currency_code":"EUR","in_stock":true},{"title":"German","offer_id":46505811181819,"sku":"","price":15.0,"currency_code":"EUR","in_stock":true},{"title":"Czech","offer_id":46505811214587,"sku":"","price":15.0,"currency_code":"EUR","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0689\/9266\/3803\/files\/ebe723feb5a1f3f23b726a9e113f9094.jpg?v=1726097517"},{"product_id":"autopsia-poster-from-weltuntergang-show-pain-sin-burn","title":"Autopsia poster from Weltuntergang Show: Pain, sin, burn","description":"\u003cp\u003e\r\n\tarticles:\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\t\u003cstrong\u003e\u003ca href=\"http:\/\/www.divus.cc\/praha\/en\/article\/b-autopsia-weltuntergang-b-pogrom-exhibition\" target=\"_blank\"\u003e\u003cspan style=\"color:#ff0000;\"\u003eAutopsia: Weltuntergang, pogrom exhibition\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/a\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"color nobold\" style=\"margin-top: 0px;\"\u003e\r\n\t\u003ca href=\"http:\/\/www.divus.cc\/praha\/en\/article\/autopsia-or-on-death-and-salvation\" target=\"_blank\"\u003e\u003cspan style=\"color:#ff0000;\"\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eAutopsia or On Death and Salvation\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/a\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\t \u003c\/p\u003e\r\n","brand":"publishig-house-divus","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46505812852987,"sku":"","price":75.0,"currency_code":"EUR","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0689\/9266\/3803\/files\/4dc1890a14e9c71d740bcefdbdb46547.jpg?v=1726097570"},{"product_id":"autopsia-poster-from-weltuntergang-show-weltuntergang","title":"Autopsia poster from Weltuntergang Show: Weltuntergang","description":"\u003cp\u003e\r\n\tarticles:\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\t\u003cstrong\u003e\u003ca href=\"http:\/\/www.divus.cc\/praha\/en\/article\/b-autopsia-weltuntergang-b-pogrom-exhibition\" target=\"_blank\"\u003e\u003cspan style=\"color:#ff0000;\"\u003eAutopsia: Weltuntergang, pogrom exhibition\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/a\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"color nobold\" style=\"margin-top: 0px;\"\u003e\r\n\t\u003ca href=\"http:\/\/www.divus.cc\/praha\/en\/article\/autopsia-or-on-death-and-salvation\" target=\"_blank\"\u003e\u003cspan style=\"color:#ff0000;\"\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eAutopsia or On Death and Salvation\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/a\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\t \u003c\/p\u003e\r\n","brand":"publishig-house-divus","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46505812885755,"sku":"","price":75.0,"currency_code":"EUR","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0689\/9266\/3803\/files\/120b6c432a61c43e26b9e165567346d8.jpg?v=1726097572"},{"product_id":"autopsia-poster-from-weltuntergang-show-20th-century-is-dead-2","title":"Autopsia poster from Weltuntergang Show: 20th century is dead (2)","description":"\u003cp\u003e\r\n\tarticles:\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\t\u003cstrong\u003e\u003ca href=\"http:\/\/www.divus.cc\/praha\/en\/article\/b-autopsia-weltuntergang-b-pogrom-exhibition\" target=\"_blank\"\u003e\u003cspan style=\"color:#ff0000;\"\u003eAutopsia: Weltuntergang, pogrom exhibition\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/a\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"color nobold\" style=\"margin-top: 0px;\"\u003e\r\n\t\u003ca href=\"http:\/\/www.divus.cc\/praha\/en\/article\/autopsia-or-on-death-and-salvation\" target=\"_blank\"\u003e\u003cspan style=\"color:#ff0000;\"\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eAutopsia or On Death and Salvation\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/a\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\t \u003c\/p\u003e\r\n","brand":"publishig-house-divus","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46505812951291,"sku":"","price":75.0,"currency_code":"EUR","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0689\/9266\/3803\/files\/50971c8604a3f251df2b107826cd18d0.jpg?v=1726097574"},{"product_id":"autopsia-poster-from-weltuntergang-show-technology-3","title":"Autopsia poster from Weltuntergang Show: TEchnOLOGY (3)","description":"\u003cp\u003e\r\n\tarticles:\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\t\u003cstrong\u003e\u003ca href=\"http:\/\/www.divus.cc\/praha\/en\/article\/b-autopsia-weltuntergang-b-pogrom-exhibition\" target=\"_blank\"\u003e\u003cspan style=\"color:#ff0000;\"\u003eAutopsia: Weltuntergang, pogrom exhibition\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/a\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"color nobold\" style=\"margin-top: 0px;\"\u003e\r\n\t\u003ca href=\"http:\/\/www.divus.cc\/praha\/en\/article\/autopsia-or-on-death-and-salvation\" target=\"_blank\"\u003e\u003cspan style=\"color:#ff0000;\"\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eAutopsia or On Death and Salvation\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/a\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\t \u003c\/p\u003e\r\n","brand":"publishig-house-divus","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46505812984059,"sku":"","price":75.0,"currency_code":"EUR","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0689\/9266\/3803\/files\/62fe27a58d994d49aad0de5c7c90ce51.jpg?v=1726097577"},{"product_id":"autopsia-poster-from-weltuntergang-show-lebensgefahr","title":"Autopsia poster from Weltuntergang Show: Lebensgefahr!","description":"\u003cp\u003e\r\n\tarticles:\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\t\u003cstrong\u003e\u003ca href=\"http:\/\/www.divus.cc\/praha\/en\/article\/b-autopsia-weltuntergang-b-pogrom-exhibition\" target=\"_blank\"\u003e\u003cspan style=\"color:#ff0000;\"\u003eAutopsia: Weltuntergang, pogrom exhibition\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/a\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp class=\"color nobold\" style=\"margin-top: 0px;\"\u003e\r\n\t\u003ca href=\"http:\/\/www.divus.cc\/praha\/en\/article\/autopsia-or-on-death-and-salvation\" target=\"_blank\"\u003e\u003cspan style=\"color:#ff0000;\"\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eAutopsia or On Death and Salvation\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/a\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\t \u003c\/p\u003e\r\n","brand":"publishig-house-divus","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46505813049595,"sku":"","price":75.0,"currency_code":"EUR","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0689\/9266\/3803\/files\/2208b72bdb668aa828aba48816675efe.jpg?v=1726097579"},{"product_id":"s-d-ch-varlenuv-slavin","title":"S.d.Ch.: Varlénův slavín","description":"\u003cp\u003e\r\n\tS.d.Ch.: Varlén's Pantheon, 99,5 x 69 cm, collage and drawing\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n","brand":"publishig-house-divus","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46505813082363,"sku":"","price":900.0,"currency_code":"EUR","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0689\/9266\/3803\/files\/929d5b7fb7211778fdea82f79ab5c652.jpg?v=1726097581"},{"product_id":"s-d-ch-varlens-vertical-creche","title":"S.d.Ch.: Varlén's Vertical Creche","description":"\u003cp\u003e\r\n\tS.d.Ch.: Varlén's Vertical Creche. 2007, 69,7 x 77,8, collage and drawing\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n","brand":"publishig-house-divus","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46505813475579,"sku":"","price":1000.0,"currency_code":"EUR","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0689\/9266\/3803\/files\/57fa195bb7b64268ae7cf147972590e0.jpg?v=1726097583"},{"product_id":"s-d-ch-varlen-behind-the-grave-with-w-a-m","title":"S.d.Ch.: Varlén behind the grave with W.A.M.","description":"\u003cp\u003e\r\n\tS.d.Ch.: Varlén behind the grave with W.A.M., 2006, 70 x 100 cm, collage and drawing\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n","brand":"publishig-house-divus","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46505813541115,"sku":"","price":900.0,"currency_code":"EUR","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0689\/9266\/3803\/files\/eac318d57001b189186b60235640304c.jpg?v=1726097585"},{"product_id":"autopsia-berlin-requiem","title":"Autopsia - Berlin Requiem","description":"\u003cdiv class=\"head\"\u003e\r\n\t\u003cstrong\u003eFormat: CD, Album \u003c\/strong\u003e\n\u003c\/div\u003e\r\n\u003ch3 class=\"rounded_top group\"\u003e\r\n\t \u003c\/h3\u003e\r\n\u003ch3 class=\"rounded_top group\"\u003e\r\n\tTracklist\u003c\/h3\u003e\r\n\u003ctable class=\"playlist mini_playlist\" height=\"130\" id=\"playlist-\" itemscope=\"\" itemtype=\"http:\/\/schema.org\/MusicGroup\" width=\"290\"\u003e\r\n\t\u003ctbody\u003e\r\n\t\t\u003ctr class=\"first\" itemprop=\"track\" itemscope=\"\" itemtype=\"http:\/\/schema.org\/MusicRecording\"\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\u003ctd class=\"track_pos release_tracklist_track_pos\"\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\t1\u003c\/td\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\u003ctd class=\"track_artists\"\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\t \u003c\/td\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\u003ctd class=\"track\"\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\t\u003cspan class=\"track_title\" itemprop=\"name\"\u003eFuneral Music I \u003c\/span\u003e\n\u003c\/td\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\u003ctd class=\"track_duration\" width=\"25\"\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\t\u003cspan\u003e7:36\u003c\/span\u003e\n\u003c\/td\u003e\r\n\t\t\u003c\/tr\u003e\r\n\t\t\u003ctr itemprop=\"track\" itemscope=\"\" itemtype=\"http:\/\/schema.org\/MusicRecording\"\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\u003ctd class=\"track_pos release_tracklist_track_pos\"\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\t2\u003c\/td\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\u003ctd class=\"track_artists\"\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\t \u003c\/td\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\u003ctd class=\"track\"\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\t\u003cspan class=\"track_title\" itemprop=\"name\"\u003eRetorten Geneze \u003c\/span\u003e\n\u003c\/td\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\u003ctd class=\"track_duration\" width=\"25\"\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\t\u003cspan\u003e9:49\u003c\/span\u003e\n\u003c\/td\u003e\r\n\t\t\u003c\/tr\u003e\r\n\t\t\u003ctr itemprop=\"track\" itemscope=\"\" itemtype=\"http:\/\/schema.org\/MusicRecording\"\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\u003ctd class=\"track_pos release_tracklist_track_pos\"\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\t3\u003c\/td\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\u003ctd class=\"track_artists\"\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\t \u003c\/td\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\u003ctd class=\"track\"\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\t\u003cspan class=\"track_title\" itemprop=\"name\"\u003eFuneral Music II \u003c\/span\u003e\n\u003c\/td\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\u003ctd class=\"track_duration\" width=\"25\"\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\t\u003cspan\u003e6:56\u003c\/span\u003e\n\u003c\/td\u003e\r\n\t\t\u003c\/tr\u003e\r\n\t\t\u003ctr itemprop=\"track\" itemscope=\"\" itemtype=\"http:\/\/schema.org\/MusicRecording\"\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\u003ctd class=\"track_pos release_tracklist_track_pos\"\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\t4\u003c\/td\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\u003ctd class=\"track_artists\"\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\t \u003c\/td\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\u003ctd class=\"track\"\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\t\u003cspan class=\"track_title\" itemprop=\"name\"\u003eRadical Machine 3.0 \u003c\/span\u003e\n\u003c\/td\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\u003ctd class=\"track_duration\" width=\"25\"\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\t\u003cspan\u003e2:56\u003c\/span\u003e\n\u003c\/td\u003e\r\n\t\t\u003c\/tr\u003e\r\n\t\t\u003ctr itemprop=\"track\" itemscope=\"\" itemtype=\"http:\/\/schema.org\/MusicRecording\"\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\u003ctd class=\"track_pos release_tracklist_track_pos\"\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\t5\u003c\/td\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\u003ctd class=\"track_artists\"\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\t \u003c\/td\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\u003ctd class=\"track\"\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\t\u003cspan class=\"track_title\" itemprop=\"name\"\u003eFuneral Music III \u003c\/span\u003e\n\u003c\/td\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\u003ctd class=\"track_duration\" width=\"25\"\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\t\u003cspan\u003e4:12\u003c\/span\u003e\n\u003c\/td\u003e\r\n\t\t\u003c\/tr\u003e\r\n\t\t\u003ctr itemprop=\"track\" itemscope=\"\" itemtype=\"http:\/\/schema.org\/MusicRecording\"\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\u003ctd class=\"track_pos release_tracklist_track_pos\"\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\t6\u003c\/td\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\u003ctd class=\"track_artists\"\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\t \u003c\/td\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\u003ctd class=\"track\"\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\t\u003cspan class=\"track_title\" itemprop=\"name\"\u003eSounds For Remembering Death \u003c\/span\u003e\n\u003c\/td\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\u003ctd class=\"track_duration\" width=\"25\"\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\t\u003cspan\u003e10:07\u003c\/span\u003e\n\u003c\/td\u003e\r\n\t\t\u003c\/tr\u003e\r\n\t\u003c\/tbody\u003e\r\n\u003c\/table\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\t \u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\tAll music Autopsia \u0026amp; Dämmerung Orchestra ℗ + © 2006\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tEngeneered \u0026amp; mastered at Mustakillah Studio Prague 2006\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cspan class=\"role\"\u003eDesign [Cover Design]\u003c\/span\u003e – \u003cspan class=\"rollover_link\"\u003eI\u003c\/span\u003e\u003cspan class=\"rollover_link\"\u003ekkONA DESIGN\u003c\/span\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cspan class=\"role\"\u003eMusic By\u003c\/span\u003e – \u003cspan class=\"rollover_link\"\u003eAutopsia\u003c\/span\u003e, \u003cspan class=\"rollover_link\"\u003eDämmerung Orchestra\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\t \u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: bold;\"\u003eThe Berlin Requiem\u003c\/span\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tWhen Mary Shelley makes a choice regarding the place on which Doctor Frankenstein will finally render to our memory the creature which he procreated, she opts for an icy wasteland. The place that looks like a perfect description of eternity, where everything is motionless, out of the senses, like a frozen image in which only a wind might be giving a promise of itself - a breath of death, something which remains at the very end, yet testifying that we are still here, on this side of the life. It is as if The Berlin Requiem deals with what can scarcely be discerned by the senses, be heard, in the realm of the gelid nothingness. As if there faintly audible sounds of the alterations of crystals and frozen bodies are recorded. Duration of the sound is expanding to the very limits of articulation. Only the silent quiver of white light and cold motions is audible. The sound extends through the space that has neither the horizon, nor forms, nor boundaries. Perhaps it is the place where the change is the largest - one that cannot be uttered, such a large one that it cannot be recorded or comprehended. And yet it is as if The Requiem belongs to a certain place and a certain time. This belonging is indicated through Berthold Brecht s poem and through Berlin itself - it is designated by the name of the world in which the death really occurs. The poem itself praises the transience - the moment when we actually separate ourselves from the things that do not mean anything to us, the moment when we can depart placidly. However, we almost cannot tell anything about this placidity , maybe only that it is almost light, cold - almost non-sensorial. What links the city and the frosty desert here is the unutterable itself. In order to perceive this, one needs not travel afar to the end of the world nor to climb high to mountain peaks. Frankenstein s creature vanished in the white wasteland. We shall never learn if it crossed the frontier of death or is it still with us. It is as if The Requiem restores this ambiguity over and again, as if the sound is that which is still there - that which joins together the word and the unutterable.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tVladimir Mattioni\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t19. 02. 2007.\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n","brand":"publishig-house-divus","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46505813606651,"sku":"","price":12.0,"currency_code":"EUR","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0689\/9266\/3803\/files\/73f538d5d36c08225ceed6993d0768a3.jpg?v=1726097588"},{"product_id":"autopsia-karl-rossmann-fragments","title":"Autopsia: Karl Rossmann FRAGMENTS","description":"\u003cp\u003e\r\n\t\u003cstrong\u003e\"VARIOUS ILLUSIONS ARE FORMED, THAT OBSTRUCT US FROM PERCEIVING THE REALITY OF VOIDNESS, WHICH IS THE BASIS OF THE TRUTH\"\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tKarl Rossmann 1922.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tRossmann is best known as a composer and pioneer of electronic avantgarde music. But his artistic output was not only music, of course, and his output in any case was not particularly large. There are about 30 works in all and there are occasional gaps of up to three years between one piece and the next. The bulk of his music was written between the two world wars - it was in 1918 that he inherited the title - though his earliest successful pieces were written before that, and accepted for publication, while he was a diplomatic attaché at the Cehoslovakia Embassy in Warszawa.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tThe few he did produce shows that he was one of the few truly original Czech composers of the last century. However, he also published 7 novels in his later years, 2 volumes of poetry and had two one-man exhibitions of his paintings in the 1930’s. In his lifetime he exhibited over 100 oil paintings all of which are now lost or in private collections. Most were landscapes - Night Landscapes.\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tOn this album Autopsia are peforming a series of his fragments and paying him tribute. True Avandgarde and minimal electronic music back to his origins. A step back into Electronic and a step forward into Industrial.\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t\"... By another accident a few days I got the latest CD by Autopsia, which seems to be dedicated to the life and work of one Karl Rossmann, who was apparently a painter, composer and writer from the Czech Republic, but in these internet times I am not an easy believer when it comes to people who \"destroyed as much evidence of his existence as he could find\". On the Autopsia website we see him mentioned as one of the 'few truly original Czech composers of the last century'. Its a bit hard to understand all of this, in relation to the music playing in the background, the 'Karl Rossmann Fragments'. But strangely enough it comes close to the work of serious modern electro-acoustic composers from France - to complete the circle. The twenty fragments are short, almost 'pop' in length of electronically processed sounds, reverb, drone like sounds, and pitches that go up and down, but it cleverly stays away from the long form that we usually find in this part of the music world. Each fragment seems to have a life of its own, completed, finished, and, despite the word 'fragment', a finished composition. This new Autopsia work is hardly alike the work they are best known for, the sampled orchestral bits, even it at times seems to have sampled strings and percussion. Perhaps its all a bit much this release to take in at once, clocking in at over seventy minutes and with a lack of variation here and there, but half today and the other half tomorrow is quite nice to work with. \" [FdW \/ Vital Weekly]\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\t\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tTracklist\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t1 Fragment 7 4:18\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t2 Fragment 12 1:58\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t3 Fragment 15 5:46\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t4 Fragment 9 3:59\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t5 Fragment 11 2:54\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t6 Fragment 17 2:24\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t7 Fragment 5 2:51\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t8 Fragment 26 3:46\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t9 Fragment 23 2:41\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t10 Fragment 27 7:37\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t11 Fragment 7a 3:29\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t12 Fragment 12b 1:15\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t13 Fragment 32 6:18\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t14 Fragment 29 1:44\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t15 Fragment 9a 6:01\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t16 Fragment 33 5:00\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t17 Fragment 1 3:23\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t18 Fragment 19 3:21\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t19 Fragment 4b 2:46\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\t20 Fragment 20 2:03\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\t \u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\tCD ILLUMINATING TECHNOLOGIES IT0011\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tPackage: 4 glossy pages 180mm x 180mm\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tLtd. edition of 500 handnumbered CDs\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tStyle: Electronic, Acousmatic, Avantgarde\u003cbr\u003e\r\n\tMay 2009\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003ctable\u003e\r\n\t\u003ctbody\u003e\r\n\t\t\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\u003ctd valign=\"top\"\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\t\u003cspan\u003eFormat:\u003c\/span\u003e\n\u003c\/td\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\u003ctd\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\t \u003c\/td\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\u003ctd valign=\"top\"\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\tCD in 7\" cover\u003c\/td\u003e\r\n\t\t\u003c\/tr\u003e\r\n\t\t\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\u003ctd valign=\"top\"\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\t\u003cspan\u003eLimited:\u003c\/span\u003e\n\u003c\/td\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\u003ctd\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\t \u003c\/td\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\u003ctd valign=\"top\"\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\t500\u003c\/td\u003e\r\n\t\t\u003c\/tr\u003e\r\n\t\t\u003ctr\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\u003ctd valign=\"top\"\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\t\u003cspan\u003eLabel:\u003c\/span\u003e\n\u003c\/td\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\u003ctd\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\t \u003c\/td\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\u003ctd valign=\"top\"\u003e\r\n\t\t\t\tIT 0011, ILLUMINATING TECHNOLOGIES\u003c\/td\u003e\r\n\t\t\u003c\/tr\u003e\r\n\t\u003c\/tbody\u003e\r\n\u003c\/table\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\t \u003c\/p\u003e\r\n","brand":"publishig-house-divus","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46505813639419,"sku":"","price":12.0,"currency_code":"EUR","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0689\/9266\/3803\/files\/29ae820c41179f84a2ed58e4579e9f05.jpg?v=1726097590"},{"product_id":"s-d-ch-lidska-trilogie-human-trilogy","title":"S.d.Ch.: Lidská trilogie (Human Trilogy)","description":"\u003cp\u003eText and Collages by S.d.Ch.\u003cbr\u003eDesign, layout and pre-press by Ivan Mečl and Blanka Brixová\u003cbr\u003eAll photographs were made by Dita Lamačová and S.d.Ch.\u003cbr\u003eLanguage editor Olga Sixtová\u003cbr\u003eErotic painting on background of the photographs for first play was made by Lucie Ferliková.\u003cbr\u003eSculptures and objects of stones on the rest of photographs are from Martin Zeta's exhibition.\u003cbr\u003eAll photographs were amde at Divus in Vltavská, Prague.\u003cbr\u003eFirst edition\u003cbr\u003ePrague 2014\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003ch1\u003e\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 12px;\"\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eExcerpt from DEER MOAT, \u003c\/strong\u003ea funerary-apocalyptic gospel:\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/h1\u003e\n\u003ch2\u003e\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 12px;\"\u003e\"... Filling in the Deer Moat is an old idea. Black magic. ...\"\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/h2\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 12px;\"\u003e\"... A carriage stop on the bridge, at the spot for St. John of Nepomuk was thrown into the Vltava. With the help of a lowering device, a casket is lowered onto a funerary gondola, which will carry it along the river to banks of the Lesser Town, then up Čertovka Creek under the arch of bridge, where the same lowering device will lift it up again onto the same carriage, harnessed to 16 cold-blooded whites, from where the procession follows Mostecká Street to... you’ll just have to see for yourself. ...\"\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Divus","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46505813672187,"sku":"9788086450841","price":13.0,"currency_code":"EUR","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0689\/9266\/3803\/files\/4097d3b4de30ee7339e3dc9b8f25f3c4.jpg?v=1726097592"},{"product_id":"s-d-ch-tri-trilogie-3-x-trilogy","title":"S.d.Ch.: Tři Trilogie (3 x Trilogy)","description":"\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eVíce o Česká trilogii: \u003ca href=\"http:\/\/divus.cc\/cs\/eshop\/product\/divadlo\/1629\/s-d-ch-ceska-trilogie.html\"\u003ehttp:\/\/divus.cc\/cs\/eshop\/product\/divadlo\/1629\/s-d-ch-ceska-trilogie.html\u003c\/a\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eVíce o Umělecké trilogii: \u003ca href=\"http:\/\/divus.cc\/cs\/eshop\/product\/divadlo\/1632\/s-d-ch-umelecka-trilogie.html\"\u003ehttp:\/\/divus.cc\/cs\/eshop\/product\/divadlo\/1632\/s-d-ch-umelecka-trilogie.html\u003c\/a\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eVíce o Lidské trilogii: \u003c\/strong\u003ehttps:\/\/divus.cz\/cs\/products\/s-d-ch-lidska-trilogie-human-trilogy\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"publishig-house-divus","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46505813737723,"sku":"","price":22.0,"currency_code":"EUR","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0689\/9266\/3803\/files\/738533d41f23b2ed63d0a82e3018dd96.jpg?v=1726097594"},{"product_id":"s-d-ch-3x-varlen-kompletni-edice-1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9","title":"S.d.Ch.: 3x Varlén (kompletní edice = 1.2.3. + 4.5.6. + 7.8.9.)","description":"\u003cp\u003e\r\n\t\u003cstrong\u003eVarlén I. (1.2.3) a II. (4.5.6)\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\tKolážový comiks „na hraně existence“, tento „deník všední úzkosti“ je pravou arcikuriositou pro nelíčené fajnšmekry, balancující na hraničních výspách komixu a koláže, poezie a blastemie, hříčky a tvůrčího konceptu, skrytého řádu a zjevného nesmyslu k samozřejmé originalitě obsahové a především formální.\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\t \u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\t\u003cstrong\u003eVarlén III. (7.8.9.)\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\tTřináctý svazek edice DOBRODRUŽSTVÍ | Komix na hraně existence. Kolážový comiks „na hraně existence“, tento „deník všední úzkosti“ je pravou arcikuriositou pro nelíčené fajnšmekry, balancující na hraničních výspách komixu a koláže, poezie a blastemie, hříčky a tvůrčího konceptu, skrytého řádu a zjevného nesmyslu k samozřejmé originalitě obsahové a především formální.\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\t \u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\tO dalších třech sešitech Deníků všední úzkosti VARLÉN platí to, co je napsáno o předchozích šesti, stočtyřicet nových stran pokračování  Comiksu na hraně existence přináší i tentokrát na ostří nůžek vyhraněný souboj kolážového komiksu a komiksové koláže, vědomí a nevědomí, postmoderních východisek a téže bezvýchodnosti, fenoménu a fantómu, spiritualismu a blasfémie. Ale něco je i jinak.\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\t \u003c\/p\u003e\r\n\u003cp\u003e\r\n\tZatímco čísla osm a devět přinášejí varlénovskou klasiku, antipříběhy, herrszinkovské metafyzické kriminálky, metropolitní parabedekry, opakovačky, anekdotáže a jumbo - koany, celý sešit číslo sedm tvoří ojedinělý třicetistránkový opus Český Varlén, ve kterém je téma národní tragédie a státní katastrofy pojednáno jako dobrodružství vtělení.\u003c\/p\u003e\r\n","brand":"publishig-house-divus","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46505813770491,"sku":"","price":11.0,"currency_code":"EUR","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0689\/9266\/3803\/files\/20622ed2d6528f2a228ada6ad9282cc6.jpg?v=1726097597"}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0689\/9266\/3803\/collections\/11_authors.svg?v=1726099936","url":"https:\/\/divus.cz\/collections\/authors.oembed?page=5","provider":"DIVUS","version":"1.0","type":"link"}